Our line moves up one more position.
I scan the crowd and wonder if Cynthia is still talking out loud or if, lacking an audience, she has actually quieted. She has told me that having a sounding board really helps her work things out. But she never wants me to respond. She says it interrupts her thinking. This leaves me feeling like the very board she wants me to be—rigid and inanimate. I know I need to shift this pattern but sometimes the options are few, getting up to pee often the path of least resistance. I’ve no doubt Cynthia has pulled out her phone, finding someone else to pick up with right where she left off with me.
The bathroom line has hardly moved and I don’t care.
A rattle of hula-hoops as Hippy Girl emerges from the far stall. She pauses by the sinks for just a moment. Bettie Page is still hard at work occupying the breadth of the space. Hippy Girl just shrugs and steps outside. “Sunshine cleans everything!” she exclaims, lifting her face towards the foggy sky. “Hmm?” she says, shrugs again, and heads off towards her tribe of spinners.
The near stall opens. A pencil-thin hipster emerges. She’s been in there forever. She wrestles to pull up her tight jeans even as gravity pulls her thick-framed glasses down. One corner of her plaid shirt has caught awkwardly in her zipper and it takes her a moment to wrest it free.
Before anyone else can move, Bettie Page scoops up her belongings and shoots into the stall. Again.
One of the suburban girls has started to sway. Her friend tucks an arm around her waist, growing steadier on her feet as her friend grows even wobblier. “We’re almost there. Do not puke on me, whatever you do.” Scolding and supporting, she guides her friend into the far stall still dusted with glitter from Hippy Girl’s hoops.
Trucker and I wait in silence. No one has joined the line behind us. It’s an odd gap in the collective need to pee. Perhaps I’m channeling it all, perhaps all their urination impulses are funneling through my body because suddenly I really need to pee.
Kegels help, but nothing beats external pressure. Kids are shameless experts at this, but they can get away with grabbing their crotches in public in a way that adults never can. I’m convinced that with baggy enough jeans, no one can tell when you dig hands deep into pockets, sneaking fingertips over to crotch in order to provide that direct urethral pressure. Cynthia tells me I’m crazy to think no one can see what I’m doing, but sometimes I have no choice.
I lean around Trucker just to double-check the stall status. The suburbans are struggling to pull the far stall door shut while Bettie is still ensconced in the near one. The door of the middle stall is ajar.
“I think that one might be free.” I point urgently with my elbow, fearful of loosing the pressure of the pee-tourniquet I’ve applied.
Trucker walks forward to check, pulls the door open, and immediately recoils.
“With good reason!” he says, returning to the short line where I’m now hopping from one foot to the other. I might as well be a three-year-old.
Bettie reemerges and goes back to the mirrors. I have a strong sense of déjà vu.
“Femmes…” Trucker grunts impatiently.
I must look like I am about to burst because Trucker gestures magnanimously. “You first,” he says with a slight bow.
Never one to look a gift horse—or gift trucker—in the mouth, I nod my gratitude and move toward the stall. My tiny, rapid steps are a feeble attempt to walk while still keeping my thighs pressed tight together. I can tell this is going to be close. I’m unbuckling my belt with one hand as I swing the stall door open with the other.
“It must be Noah’s Ark day today,” I hear Betty say with amusement. Then she sings, “The animals went in two by two, two by two…”
With my internal waters rising, my brain can’t quite process her words. I struggle to drop trou, bend forward, swing butt over seat and reach out to close the stall door, all in one deft complex of choreography. Only when my outstretched hand hits soft belly do I finally understand: Trucker has slipped into the stall right behind me.
He closes the door and leans back against it, folding his arms across his flattened chest.
“Uh?” I grab for the waistband of my pants and try to stand. My pants are already at mid-thigh, ready to provide a sanitary cushion between my body and the less than pristine toilet seat. Even as I clench the muscles of my pelvic floor, I know that my bladder is way ahead of the rest of me, already breathing its own sigh of relief as it releases. We have passed the peeing point of no return.
“Might as well just let it go,” he coaches.
I hover above the toilet for just a moment longer before finally giving in.
“Ah!” I sigh as I feel my bladder ache and collapse, muscles bearing down to force a hard stream of warm liquid. It seems to go on forever. An entire park’s worth of pee. Over my splashing sound I hear the suburban girls two doors down.
“Don’t fight it,” the slightly more sober one says. “You’ll feel better after.”
“But I don’t want to,” the other laments. “It’s so gross!”
I can hear her swallowing hard, fighting a losing battle but not yet willing to concede.
“I promise I’ll hold your hair back.”
A deep sigh and a burp in response.
I sigh too, my channeled flow having finally come to an end. I’ve never been a “tinkler,” letting urine dribble out of me as if almost by accident, and I certainly am not going to be one now as he watches. I am a binary pee-er: on or off, one hundred percent committed until the last drop. Having reached full stop, I twist to the right and tease at the underside of the dispenser searching for toilet paper. Nothing. I peer through the translucent plastic, seeing only an empty cardboard core.
“Damn!” I mutter.
“Guess you’ll just have to drip dry,” Trucker shrugs.
It is one thing to succumb to the uncontrollable need to pee while being watched. It is an entirely different matter to simply sit with an audience and wait to dry.
“Slide back,” he says, reaching for his heavy Caterpillar belt buckle. “I need to pee too.”
I’m confused. I start to stand but he makes eye contact, raising one eyebrow in a dare. The energy of his body’s forward movement pushes me back down.
“Slide your pants to your ankles, move back and spread your knees.” His voice is quiet but firm.
He unzips his fly. The heavy belt pulls the corners of his pants down and out of the way. He reaches into his plaid boxers to expose one of those stand-to-pee packers I’ve heard about. Realistic and functional. Who knew?
“Don’t worry, I’m very accurate with this,” he encourages.
“I sure hope so,” I mumble.
With little room to maneuver, I slide back until my spine hits the large metal pipe joint where water inflow meets flushing lever. It digs in just under my ribs. I look down at the narrow space between my legs and widen it, pushing my legs as far apart as the grimy porcelain will allow.
Trucker steps in closer and aims. I can see the hem of his white tank draping lazily over his guide hand. I hold my breath and then watch in amazement as a narrow stream of yellow arches downward between my legs.
“Wow!” I exclaim nervously. I can feel the heat pass close, like a molten lava waterfall, but my naked thighs stay dry. “You really are precise,” I concede, closing my eyes and trying to stay perfectly still.
I hear a moan from the far stall. It still isn’t clear if the suburban teen will win or lose her regurgitation fight.
By the sound of it, Bettie is still primping at the mirrors. Her singing is more animated now: Paulina Rubio’s “Boys will be boys, they like to play around…”
There is something in the chestnut roughness of her voice that strikes like a match against the center strip of my belly, igniting a new awareness in my crotch.
I open my eyes. Trucker is still peeing a steady stream. I follow the coursing liquid upstream, past the dirty nails tensioning his precision instrument, past the thick bell
y pressing out into the stained shirt, all the way up to Trucker’s tucked chin. Without moving his head, he lifts his eyes to mine and cracks a crooked smile.
“Impressive, eh? Let me show you just how precise I can really be.”
I cock my head, unsure of his meaning. I’ve lost track of the larger question of how I came to be sitting here with a total stranger peeing between my legs. For now, I am focused on the more specific one at hand.
“Precise?”
His answer comes not in words but in a change in the microclimate at my crotch. I feel the heat, the rise in humidity, the building of an on-shore breeze first. It is like one of those disturbing San Francisco days when the wind reverses, coming from the northeast, bringing the Central Valley heat to the Bay and, with it, an uneasy feeling that the world could combust at any moment.
And it does…when his pee hits directly, accurately, purposefully onto the head of my clit.
“Fuck,” I grunt, trying not to move and unable to hold still.
Outside, Bettie’s singing has switched from lyrics to a warm hum.
I look up at Trucker. He is completely absorbed and focused, the tip of his tongue poking out between his firm lips. He coaxes the line of pee up and down the shaft of my clit as softly and gently as if it were the tip of his tongue.
The pee splatters against the opening of my front hole, runs down across the bridge of my perineum and splashes across my ass. Flashbacks to childhood baths, legs splayed up along the hard, cold tile as I fought to position the faucet’s flow directly onto my clit.
“Jesus!” I gasp, my jaw dropping open as the energy pours down through by body, drawn down by the eddy of pee sweeping across my cunt, washing it all clean.
“I don’t think I can fight it anymore!” I hear the suburban girl say from the far stall. A loud audible hiccup follows.
“Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be…” Betty croons Nirvana without a hint of irony.
I bite into my lip. He is still peeing and the flow is even more targeted, moving slowly back up, stalking the head of my clit again. I know that when he reaches it, I will come. He’s moving closer, past the vaginal opening, up across my own urethra, up to where my inner lips curve inward, giving him cover before the last pounce. He is teasing at the base of my clit, continuing up, up, up…I arch back and feel the orgasm gather in my belly.
Dry heaves echo from the far stall.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got your hair. Just let it out…”
The sound of full-on retching.
I think I hear Bettie’s fingers making what I can only describe as a golf clap.
I’m so close now, just two beats from my own kind of release…when it stops.
Everything stops.
The heat, the moisture, the sound all stop, flowing down and away in an instant.
“What the fuck?” I cock my head and crack open one eye.
Trucker is smirking, his dick still in his hand. “Sorry, sometimes you run dry at just the most inopportune moments.”
My disappointment is clear. Without shifting the pre-come arch of my body, I scan my eyes slowly down to his dick and frown.
“Air drying,” he says, as if in answer to my unspoken question.
I focus in on his taupe member. A single drop of golden urine dangles heavily from the tip. Slowly, I use my heels for leverage to pull myself along the toilet seat. Perched on the front edge, I lean forward and, with the tip of my tongue, off-load the droplet into my mouth. I pause to suckle on just the tip of his cock, wrapping my lips around only this side of its equator, its full roundness like a Tootsie pop in my mouth. My upper lip presses back against my own nasal septum and I feel satiated.
I stand, pants dropping down around my ankles, and press my belly into his, pushing him back against the stall door. I can feel his hand at his cock, trapped between us, the shaft pressing down into my crotch. I push my lips hard against his, feeling the firm jaw and sprouting whiskers at his chin. I force my tongue between his teeth, moving the taste of urine into his mouth like the passing of a hard candy between us.
With a sucking sound, I pull back.
“I’ve been told that if you’re marooned on a desert island, you can drink your own urine to survive.”
“Yum…” he replies.
I reach down and pull up my pants. I fasten my belt as he does the same. It is crowded now in the stall with us both standing. He tries to turn, starting to navigate our exit, but I push him back once more against the door. I grab at his crotch, holding it firmly in one hand. He does the same to mine and our eyes lock.
“Thanks,” I say. “I needed that.”
We both give one hard squeeze, as if shaking hands, then break contact. With a few more contortions, we find our way out of the stall.
Bettie catches my eye in the mirror. “Thanks, fellas. I needed that too.” She smacks her red lips, perfecting the long-finished application of lipstick, and gathers her things.
I nod and smile back.
“What took you so long?” Cynthia queries as I plop down on the grass beside her. “I was beginning to get bored. Plus it’s starting to get cold.” She shivers, her long fleece no match for the cool, foggy breeze rolling through the park.
“Sorry. There was a line. You know how the bathrooms can be kind of crowded here.”
“Now where was I?”
I watch as she tries to remember where we’d left off our conversation, stretching my legs to adjust into the not-quite-air-dried dampness in my jeans.
“Someplace interesting, I’m sure.” I smile, not needing to care quite as much as before.
TWO DOMS FOR DINNER
by Dorothy Freed
“Do you remember the fantasy you whispered in my ear one night in the playroom?” Sir inquires. “The one where you’re made to serve two dominant men—in every way?”
“Two…dominant men, Sir,” I say. My voice goes up a notch on the word two. “And in every way? Did I say that?”
“You did, D, and I’ve arranged it,” he says, grinning. “My old friend Charles is coming to dinner tomorrow evening. You remember him, don’t you?”
“How could I not? You lent me to him at a party once or twice, years ago. Had quite a way with a whip, didn’t he?” I’m blushing as I speak, and my lady parts clench at the memory.
“Still my little slut, even at your age,” he replies proudly. “Wear something hot, with stockings and a garter belt underneath, no bra or panties.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say.
Sir and I have been a Dominant/submissive couple for many years. And although the sex is less frequent and our play is less strenuous than it once was, we’re lucky enough to still be in love and happy with the lifestyle we’ve chosen. Still, it’s been years since we were active in the BDSM party scene, and I miss the thrill of play with other Doms—under Sir’s watchful eye.
On the day of Charles’s visit I’m so excited I can hardly speak, imagining the evening to come. I spend hours choosing an outfit, finally fixing on a clingy, low-cut, burgundy-colored top that barely covers the fullness of my breasts; a flouncy, knee-length black skirt that makes me feel girlish; and the comfortable, low-heeled slippers my feet insist on these days—and no bra or panties, as ordered.
After I’m finally dressed, I apply makeup and fuss with my short, silvery hair, then check my appearance in our full-length bedroom mirror. Not bad, I think, smiling at my image and enjoying the low hum of desire between my legs.
I glance at the clock. It’s a little after five. Our guest is expected to arrive at six thirty. I go into the kitchen, set the table and assemble the ingredients for a simple meal: pasta and veggies with Sir’s favorite marinara sauce, a simple salad with walnut oil and wine vinegar dressing, crusty bread and butter, and ice cream for dessert. Keeping it simple will leave more time for play.
I’ve set water on to boil for the pasta and I’m standing at the stove stirring my sauce when Sir comes up behind me. “You make one hell of a
beautiful kitchen slave, D,” he says as I feel his warm hands cupping my breasts and his fingers lightly tweaking my nipples. I arch my back and sigh with pleasure. “Martha Stewart of the BDSM set,” I say, happily. “That’s me.”
“And now for the finishing touch to your outfit,” Sir says, slipping my black chain-link collar around my neck. “There, that’s my girl.”
Charles arrives on the dot of six thirty, a tall, thick-bodied man in his early sixties, with a box of dark chocolates in his hand as a gift for his hostess. His hair’s a bit thinner and grayer than I remember it. He’s put on some weight as well. But his full lips are soft on mine when he kisses me, and I melt into him as his tongue explores my mouth. I’m flushed with arousal when he releases me. “D, you look beautiful,” he says.
“Thank you, Sir,” I say, accepting his gift. I take his coat and hang it up in the study while he exchanges hearty handshakes with my owner. “You’re one lucky man to have a woman like that,” I hear him tell Sir, and so the evening begins.
The men sit at either end of the table, chatting with each other while watching every move I make. I serve the dinner as gracefully as possible. But the truth is I’m so excited that I’m stammering. Sir slides a hand up my skirt and teases my pussy lips when I set his plate on the table. “No panties,” he informs Charles, who waves me over to his end of the table to confirm this. I look down, blushing as he fondles me, but I’m grinning like a fool.
Neither man drinks wine while they’re topping, but I pour myself a glass when I finally sit down. I’m told dinner is delicious but I’m too aroused to taste a thing. When the dishes are cleared, I serve the ice cream, accompanied by the chocolates. There’s a tension building between the three of us by the time the meal is over, and I clear the table and carry the dishes to the sink. My pulse quickens as both men watch me with predatory smiles.
“Use the bathroom if you need to, D, and then go straight to the playroom and undress. I want to find you kneeling face down and ass up when we join you. I placed a pillow on the floor to spare your knees because I’m a very kind man.”
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1 Page 18